


Dragon and Daughter

by orphan_account



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Pre-Relationship, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 06:32:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10551668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Cassandra Cain isn't in Gotham during No Man's Land. She's in Canada five years earlier, and Richard Dragon is the one to stumble across her instead





	

Richard liked living in the middle of nowhere. Ben didn't understand it, and Sandra wouldn't try if she had bothered to stop by and say hello recently; but  _he did_. The quiet and peace was strange to him but welcome after a life on the streets and then one of constant fighting, and he enjoyed doing simple tasks or reading all day.

That said, not everything could be accomplished in Canada's wilds. Food he could get from the local town, where he was regarded as an eccentric but a essentially decent man, but in order to get money to buy the food, he had to fight. And he didn't mind that either. It was a test of his skills to fight these amateurs and not kill them merely by using a move too advanced for them to block, and he relished challenges now that he was in his golden years.

(To be honest, his only  _real_  challenges were Bronze Tiger and Lady Shiva, and they didn't call.)

Okay, he was forty-five. That was pretty old for a martial artist, though. Bruce was eleven years younger than him, and he was already training up his son – sorry, his "ward" – to succeed him. The solo job? Whatever the kid thought was going on, it was intended to challenge him and train him up for his days as the Bat.

What did Richard have going for him? He didn't have any children to train, and he didn't have some type of epic quest to fill his days. The only people he trained found him, and people like Charles Szasz weren't about to throw his name and address around. Or their own.

It took him several days to come up with a simple explanation of his complex thoughts about his current lifestyle.

He enjoyed his life, but it lacked fulfillment.

Finding a job other than "fighter" would be an obvious change, but it was too late for someone like him. He had spent his earliest days living on the streets, barely capable of feeding himself let alone go to school or teach himself if he ever had free time to pick up a book, and after O-Sensei took him in, he was never schooled in anything but how to fight. Ben had taught him the bare bones of reading, math, science, and history, but Ben never had the time or patience for more than that. Besides, having "taught by Ben Turner" on a résumé didn't have the same weight as a high school diploma.

Perhaps he should take up adopting orphaned children off the streets of Gotham or investigating what politicians were really up to. Mayor Davidson could be up to something – maybe fishing fraud –, and the country air would do wonders for some of those kids.

He laughed to himself while he drove towards the city. He slowed down when he reached city limits and "meandered" on his way to the ring. There was no need to attract attention from the authorities.

Freddy was always glad to see Richard. "Ricky man! Where have you been?"

"At home."

"Good, good. All rested up?"

"Yep."

"Well, let's see who you can fight tonight. Tom's never fought you. He's our current up-and-comer, you know. A lot of the regulars have grown fond of him. You should fight him. Give them a bit of a show. Teach 'em how Richard Dragon throws down. Huh?"

"Sounds good." The poor kid wouldn't know what hit him.

Richard was duly introduced to Tom, a big, burly man who looked at Richard like he would look at a stick insect. After the fight, Richard would have to be sure to tell him that size had nothing to do with anything and that skill would keep him alive long enough to wonder what he was doing with his life at age forty-five.

"Get a cabin," he would recommend. "It's so peaceful that you'll be too busy enjoying the peace to think about it too hard."

Some of the regulars saw him, and they hurried over to the betting booth. A few of the others patted him on the shoulder asked what he had been doing nowadays. They would bet on Tom, the poor fools. He hoped they wouldn't put too much down.

The fight started. Tom circled him in what he must have imagined was a threatening gesture for a man with gray in his red beard and crow's feet. It wasn't, but Richard let him pretend.

He moved to strike, and Richard caught his fist and retaliated in one move. Tom glowered, but Richard wasn't frightened of him.

His attention was drawn by something much stranger than a fellow martial artist who wanted him dead.  _That_  was fairly standard, and the list of people who wanted him dead included his two dearest friends, so.

There was a really long list of people who wanted him dead.

There was a girl sitting in the rafters. He marveled at that realizing it didn't matter how she got up there, she wasn't supposed to be there. She could only be about ten, and the rafters in this old building probably couldn't support her weight.

 _Where are her parents?_  He wondered, and that allowed his opponent to get a lucky shot. The regulars in the audience gasped a little, but Richard wiped the blood off his face – a nose shot! a nose shot!  _amateurs_  – and grinned. Tom stumbled backwards, but Richard didn't care how far he ran.

He danced out of the way when Tom reared back for his third blow of the evening, and he spun around to meet Tom's back. A single blow to the kidneys, and Tom was down for the count. Did it lack flair or skill? Yes, but it got the job done.

Freddy glared. There went his plans for a show.

Richard collected his money and promised to be in tomorrow. "You can fight Eric," Freddy said in one of the chilliest voices Richard had ever heard.

"Sure." Richard almost promised a better show tomorrow, just to be nice, but  _Eric?_ Tomorrow, he would let events unfold naturally because there was no point trying to make  _Eric_ entertaining _._

He went out the back door, walking past Leon, a regular who was grinning widely and who hugged him. It looked like Leon had finally backed a winner, and Richard was glad for him. Maybe now he wouldn't need to go to the fights to gamble to earn his rent, and he would learn a lesson.

(Who was he kidding? He'd be back next week.)

The girl had already snuck out, and she was standing in the alleyway. She frowned at him like he puzzled her, and he nodded at her in greeting.

"Hello."

She didn't respond. What she did do was perfectly mimic the blow that had taken down Tom before giving him that puzzled look again.

Richard understood the accusation.  _You held back._  "I didn't want to kill him."

She tilted her head to the side, and he realized that she couldn't speak English.

She looked East Asian of some kind, so he tried Mandarin, then a succession of other languages, without success.

"Can you speak at all?" he asked after he even gave a valiant attempt at French.

She tilted her head to the side again, then blinked.

 _Good god_. Who would do that to a girl? What kind of monster would raise a mute child and teach her how to fight and nothing more?

His brain immediately began supplying names. People he had met during his travels who thought only of fighting and how to get better at it.

She did look familiar, now that he thought of it. He couldn't place it now, in the dark alleyway, but she definitely resembled someone he knew.

He pointed to his chest. "Richard."

She mouthed his name, but she didn't try to get the word out.

" _Richard_ ," he repeated insistently.

"Ree – Reeckard." She beamed.

_Close enough._

He felt guilty at making her first word his name, but she needed something to call him. Well, maybe she didn't, but it couldn't _hurt._

He mimed using a fork and chewing, and she nodded excitedly.

Food. The great equalizer and the best form of communication that Richard had ever known.

There was a twenty-four hour diner nearby where no one asked questions. The waitress bestowed a filthy look upon him when he came in with a dirty prepubescent girl in a ripped-up outfit, but he didn't try to explain it to her. People in this part of the city kept their mouths shut, and he wasn't around often enough for this to affect his reputation at all.

"A cheeseburger for me with everything on it, and she'll have, uh, the same." He hoped that she didn't have any allergies or a hatred for some vegetable or another. Though, considering her background, he doubted that the latter was a problem. Food was food when he was on the streets.

"That'll be right out."

They sat there in silence. Richard thought about starting up a conversation, but there really wasn't any point when she wouldn't understand him and couldn't respond. He doubted she cared about anything right now except the food, actually, so he let the silence remain.

The girl vacuumed up her food when it got to them, and when she started to eye his fries, he took a fistful and set them on her plate. She experimented with the ketchup and accidentally got a small lake, but she didn't mind. She just put too much ketchup on each fry and grinned brilliantly.

It was the little things.

He didn't know what he was going to do with the girl after he fed her. She needed somewhere to sleep, and she needed new clothes; but he was pretty sure that bringing her to his motel room would result in a phone call to the cops.

But she was well-trained, and he would never have noticed her if he weren't well-trained himself.

She climbed into the window of his motel room without a problem, and he handed her one of his longer t-shirts and pointed her in the way of the bathroom. She stared at the shower confusedly for long enough that he decided to turn it on for her and handed her the bar of soap after demonstrating how to use it on her naked arm, and then he closed the door on his way out.

She came out about an hour later, smiling in that face-splitting way that she had when he took her to get food and completely naked with his t-shirt in hand. He hurried over to pull the shirt over her head, naturally getting it tangled on her arms first, but he did take note of the scars – knife wounds and gunshot wounds and wounds that he couldn't properly identify with such a brief look at them – all across her torso and legs before he managed.

Then he got a good look at her face.

 _Sandra_.

Somehow, in spite of the fact that he  _knew_ what Sandra did now, what she had done, it surprised him that she had done  _this_. Ben had accused him of having romanticized the deadliest woman in the world once, in their days as best friends, and it looked like he had.

He needed to find her. Richard would bring this girl to Sandra, wherever she was now, and confront her with her sins. He didn't know what he would do next, but he would figure it out.

"So," he said in a voice that was too gentle. "What should I call you? How about – Cassandra?"

He probably shouldn't name her after Shiva, but he was short on ideas right now. Besides, he didn't know if "Sandra Woosan" was even her real name. A lot of people in his former circles used false names, and she definitely was the type to do that.

The girl blinked at him, and so he pointed at her and clearly enunciated, "Cassandra."

She smiled again and gave a valiant attempt at pronouncing her own name. Richard almost took it back, but that seemed wrong.

He eventually settled on "Cass," which she could manage.

Tomorrow, he would go out and get her some clothes before he fought. He usually stayed for a week to get him enough money for living quietly for a couple months, and he didn't want to alter his schedule or gain any attention. He considered going home first, but he needed to find Sandra. It was urgent.

"Have you ever been to Michigan?" he asked pointlessly.

She didn't respond. He took it as a "no".

* * *

 

Detroit was much as Richard remembered it, yet worse. He didn't know how Ben could handle it, but he was the last person who would question someone else's coping mechanisms.

The Tiger Dojo was in the bad part of town and was kept in operation purely from donations from guilty rich people who didn't like the idea of teaching poor blacks how to fight but who would never let taxes get high enough to allow them better schools or support structures.

Ben hadn't changed much. The Suicide Squad had cured him of his brainwashing from the League, and they had given him a purpose when he needed one. He had only contacted Richard once since he was freed of his brainwashing, and that had been to chew him out for failing to help. Ben hadn't wanted to hear excuses, so Richard hadn't provided any. He took his punishment, and he was grateful for the opportunity to get Ben's new phone number.

It had been a simple matter of calling the Question (and listening to him ramble about the mayor's wife and her daughter) to learn Ben's newest phone number and newest address. Ben was completing their sensei's work in a way Richard had never tried, and he felt humbled and fonder of his oldest friend than he had been in a long time. Too long.

He was in the middle of training a group of first-graders, who were giggling and beaming at their sensei, and Richard beamed too while Cassandra considered the group carefully.

Then Ben saw him. "Good work, kids! Let's take a ten minute break. – This man here," he gestured to Richard, "trained with me when Sensei Ben was almost as young as you are now."

The children gawped at him.

"And this is –" His face froze when he saw Cassandra.

"Cassandra," Richard said smoothly.

"Hello," Cassandra said. It was the fifth word he taught her (after "Richard", "Cass", "good", and "bad"). He had thought it would come in handy.

"Hello," Ben said. He looked at Richard like Richard had betrayed him, which was ridiculous. He raised his voice and reminded the children, "Ten minutes!"

"Let's go into my office," he said, quietly.

The office was plain and neat with only a desk, three chairs, and a file cabinet in the corner. They all sat down, and Ben asked, "What happened to David Cain?"

It sounded familiar, but Richard had been out of that world so long that he only remembered the big names now. "Who?"

He glanced at Cassandra then back at Richard. "David Cain. Her father?" He said "father" like he wasn't even sure of who David Cain was to Cassandra.

"I thought – I thought that Lady Shiva was her mother."

Ben stared at Cassandra, who stared back, and said, "I guess. She does take after Sandra if that's true."

"How come she doesn't recognize you then?"

He shrugged. "Cain bragged that she could read body language – knew it as well as anyone knew their mother tongue, he said –, so maybe she can only recognize people by their body language."

"And yours changed."

"I'd hope so." Who would want their entire being to be the same as it had been when they were being controlled by the League of Assassins? "You didn't take out David Cain, then."

"No. I barely know the name."

"He's an ass. One of those,  _if I can't be the greatest fighter of all time, then my kid will be_. You know?"

"I know." Asses.

"I trained her for a little while. We weren't allowed to talk where she could hear us." He scratched at his neck. "Did you name her 'Cassandra'? We only called her 'the one who is all'."

The League needed to look into buying a book of baby names at some point. "I did."

"Hn. – Well, I don't know how to find Sandra  _or_  Cain, but I can give you an idea to bring them to you."

"How?"

"Get someone to hire them to kill you."

Richard considered this. "That's a pretty good idea." He could fight Sandra to standstill, and this Cain fellow obviously wasn't near their level if he thought that training his daughter to be the best assassin ever was a good idea. "Do you know someone who wants me dead?"

"Richard,  _everyone_  I know wants you dead.  _I_  want you dead most of the time, and I'm pretty sure Lady Shiva has  _twenty_  bullets with your name on them."

"Thank you, Ben, but that really doesn't help."

He shrugged as if to ask, _Was I supposed to be helping?_ "Get someone rich and powerful angry. Once she hears you're on someone's list, Sandra will show up."

"That should be easy enough."

"I'd wish you luck, but you probably don't need it."

Richard didn't need luck, but he was grateful that Ben gave him the name of the local drug kingpin who was causing him the most trouble.

The next day, he said to Cassandra, "Let's go home. We can wait for them to reach us there." He yawned and stretched, feeling more refreshed than anything after a night of dodging bullets, knives, and blunt objects.

She didn't understand what he said (of course), but she came with him without any sign of hesitation.

Not for the first time, Richard realized that Cassandra was lucky that she'd met  _him_  and not someone else.

* * *

 

Cassandra seemed to enjoy living in the woods. The city and Detroit had been full of people, bright lights, and loud noises, which all combined to give her a headache, but at the cabin, there was no one around except for the two of them for miles.

Naturally (because Richard lived in a sitcom), Cassandra found a mutt and decided to take him home.

"What?"

Richard followed her extended arm to where her finger jabbed itself into the air above a filthy creature. "That's a dog," he said.

She considered this. "Ours?"

"Uh." He knew that dogs helped teach children responsibility and gentleness towards all beings, but a dog could be an excuse for her to stop practicing her English as much if she weren't forced to interact with Richard all day. "I guess."

She beamed and went to hug him. Well. It was probably for the best.

This touching moment was interrupted by an angry succession of knocks to the door.

"Either that's the mayor about the fishing thing," he said aloud, "or I'm about to get involved in a custody battle." It was probably the latter. The mayor wouldn't have come himself.

He opened the door and found Sandra Woosan standing on his front porch. "My lady Shiva," he said in his politest voice. (One that it had taken O-Sensei and Ben ages to drum into his head.) "How kind of you to drop by! Please, come in. Would you like apple juice or water? Sad to say, those are your only options."

"I hardly expected better from you," she said coolly, gliding past him.

She didn't give him an answer, so – "I suppose you'll stay thirsty, then."

Maybe she didn't hear him at all. "Why?"

"'Why', what?"

She glowered. "Why did you anger that crime boss in Detroit? Why do you want me here?"

" _Those_  are to excellent questions." He allowed himself to become more serious. "I angered the kingpin in Detroit because I wanted you here. I want you here to ask you what you and David Cain were getting up to about twelve years ago."

She blanched. "Cain –"

"I never met the man personally," he said before she could claim that David Cain had lied. "I did run into the result of your schemes, however. Cassandra!"

Cassandra came out of the study and said, "Yes?"

"Sandra Woosan, meet Cassandra Cain. At least, I think that Cain is her father, but that's still a mystery to me. She found me in the city two months ago, completely unable to speak, filthy, and half-starved. Sandra,  _she's a child._ "

Sandra's eyes had widened and become soft as he explained who this girl was, but she snapped back to her old self when he confronted her. "We were once children too, Dragon. Should we have suffered? Perhaps not. Such is the way of the world."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean we should let what happened to us affect what happens to children now. – Why did you do it, Sandra?"

In a soft voice, she said, "He killed Carolyn to make me a better fighter. The condition for my training was that I bear him a child, and I did so. I have not seen David Cain – or that child – since that day."

"Were you scared of him?"

"I am Lady Shiva, Dragon. I am never afraid."

"You were, what, twenty years old? He had killed your sister.  _Anyone_  would be scared, Sandra."

"I am not anyone."

Richard felt himself sink into resignation. "No, you're not."

Lady Shiva lifted her head and set her jaw. "The past is the past. Today, I came to kill you."

"Let's take this outside. There is no need for Cassandra to see this."

"To see what? The finest fight in martial arts history? – She should see it, and she should learn from it. One day, I might come to kill her as well."

"If you live," he said flatly.

Her eyebrows rose, and she smirked. "You are taking this seriously, aren't you, Dragon? There is none of your philosophical nonsense today. – Very well, then. Let us fight."

They took it outside by mutual, silent agreement. The cabin was in a large clearing, and there was plenty of space for them to move outside without the house – or trees – getting in the way.

Shiva struck first, and Richard dodged. He went for her shoulder, but she ducked and hit him in the stomach as he took the opportunity to get her head with his elbow.

This wasn't going to be a clean fight.

He dove forward, and she danced out of the way. She stretched out her fist, and he caught her punch. He kicked her knee, and she grabbed his arm and wrenched until his arm almost came out of its socket.

Then he hit her in the chin. She stumbled back just one step, but it was enough. He struck, and he struck again. It was not much longer before she fell backwards into the dirt.

He stood over her, feeling less triumphant than a person should when standing above Lady Shiva.

"I thought this was a fight to the death."

"Lady Shiva is dead," he informed her. "Now, you must repent for your crimes."

"What if I don't think I committed any crimes?"

"I know you, Sandra. I know you better than anyone else in the world, living or dead." He wheezed. "Be good to Cassandra, or I'll kill Sandra Woosan too." He meant it, he realized. He really meant it. Richard would give her a second chance, but there would be no third tries.

"Alexandra Woo," she said quietly. " _That_ was the name I took when I came to America. The names from before that do not matter. They are not precisely  _names_ , either." There was a story there, but most of her life was made up of stories like that.

"Can I still call you 'Sandra'?"

"If you like." She rose to her feet and asked, weakly, "Do you truly trust me with the girl?"

"No, but I want to. – She's eleven, or thereabouts. She doesn't need much, just someone to help her with her English and feed and clothe her. Even you can manage  _that_."

"Your faith is its own reward," she muttered. "How shall I accomplish that much, Richard? My only skills are in violence and murder. Do you expect me to take up work as a secretary?"

The thought was amusing, but she was right. Her record was filled with unsolved crimes that cops could only weakly connected to a force of nature known as "Lady Shiva". Her own name had no record whatsoever – no diplomas or previous jobs –, and, in this age, that meant she had no chance of employment.

"Stay here."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stay here for as long as you need," he offered. "You can get yourself on your feet, and Cassandra can get to know you before you leave. It's win-win."

"How do you win?"

"Well. I don't want Cassandra up and leaving so suddenly with someone she barely knows. It would be a comfort to me to know that she liked you and trusted you before you left together."

"Hmm. As you say, Dragon. We will stay for now."

She tilted her head to one side, and he wondered what she was thinking.

He never asked her, though, and as time went by it seemed less important.

The lonely cabin in the woods where Richard had found so much peace and so little achievement now was filled with the sounds of Sandra arguing with everyone (sometimes, even herself), Cassandra's attempts at mastering English, and the dog's yapping whenever things got too loud or too quiet or whenever they "ignored" him for too long.

It was lovely.

Unfortunately, it was also expensive. The small amount of money that had kept Richard content for years could not stretch to cover three humans and one canine companion. Sandra's savings likewise could not keep the family abreast for long, and in spite of Cassandra's insistence that she could survive on practically nothing (and an annoying part of his brain that said,  _well, she can_ ), they did need more money.

"I think I'll write my autobiography," he told Sandra one day.

She snorted. "Who would read that?"

"Lots of people," he told her. "Batman has made non-powered martial artists very popular, and if  _he_  isn't going to take advantage of the market, I might as well."

Sandra rolled her eyes, then frowned. "It could bring unwanted attention to us."

He knew what she meant. His memoirs would necessarily include a few unkind opinions of dangerous and murderous martial artists who already wanted them dead and would have no problem killing Cassandra or even Dog to get to them. That said –

"I don't think that we have to worry about anyone being a threat to  _us_."

She nodded at the fairness of this.

Richard went to the pawn shop in the town and found a typewriter. The owner of the store chuckled. "Are you finally joining the modern world, Mr. Dragon?"

"In a manner of speaking," he said. He really didn't know what to say in response to that.

Cassandra stared at him as he set up the typewriter and asked, "Are you going to write about me?"

"Of course."

She smiled shyly and then wrapped her arms around his neck. He hugged her back as best he could with her behind him. "I love you."

"I love you too, princess."

Cassandra went to feed Dog, and Sandra posed leaning against the doorframe to the living room. "Are you going to write about  _me_ , Dragon?"

"You're chapters five through twenty, Sandra."

Sandra chuckled in discomfortingly throaty way, but she didn't leave the room right then. She stood there as he finished setting it all up and got comfortable. He paused with his hands suspended above the keys for a split second, but then he put them down and typed the title at the top of the manuscript:

_Richard Dragon, Kung Fu Fighter._

Sandra grimaced. "Think of a better title," she told him. She left the room, skimming her hand across his shoulders. He shuddered and blamed it on the cold Canadian winters.

He stared at the five words for too long.

Well,  _he_  liked the name.


End file.
